


The Vigor of Youth

by HawkSong



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, First Time, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, tits out for Halone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26907784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HawkSong/pseuds/HawkSong
Summary: Emmanellain has heard from his older brother of a fascinating way to get a glimpse of a woman's breasts.Sadly for him, the Warrior of Light already knows this trick...
Relationships: Emmanellain de Fortemps/Warrior of Light
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	The Vigor of Youth

Emmanellain stands before you, eyes wide. He seems to not be quite certain what to do with his hands. That's all right. You're going to teach him.

After you get done with the beginning of the lesson.

You smile. The two of you are in the young lord's room, standing right beside his four-poster bed. He already has his coat off, and you are not, today, wearing your usual armor: just your tall black boots, your tightest shorts, the white ones with the red belt, and your favorite scarlet chemise.

This all had begun a mere bell ago, with what Emmanellain surely had thought would be mere flirtation – or perhaps he had hoped for success, but not quite like this. In any event, the rather outrageous phrase “tits out for Halone” had been invoked, and it was obvious to you that Emmanellain had no notion that you'd already heard all about this “ancient Ishgardian tradition.”

That suspicion was borne out, when Emmanellain had been utterly shocked by your calm acceptance of the “tradition” - and then struck speechless by your insistence that you must demonstrate for him in private, to be sure that you're performing the ancient rite correctly.

“Well,” he manages at last, “I suppose we should begin with, ah...”

You smile, enjoying how he squirms. “Surely you have seen this before, a virile young man such as yourself?”

His face goes rather pink. “Of c-course I have! I am...merely concerned that you not be...ah...uncomfortable.”

“I'm quite comfortable.” You tilt your head. “Though a little warm.”

Without giving him time to do more than blink, you strip your shirt off over your head, tossing it casually on the floor behind you. “There,” you sigh, “that's better.”

You stretch, slowly and deliberately, and you do not hide your grin when his eyes all but pop out of his head at the sight.

You complete your stretch, and set your hands on your hips. “Is this right, then, my lord?”

He licked his lips and swallowed hard. “It is...correct.”

“Good.” You laugh, a low sound, and you can see him shiver a little at the sound. You step closer to him, watching how his hands flex, how his eyes dart from your breasts to your face and back, valiantly attempting to stay respectful – and failing.

You smile. You know good and damn well how nice your tits are. You aim to teach Emmanellain how to appreciate them properly.

You widen your eyes a little, a patently false look of concern.

“Why, my lord, could it be that you did not wish to see me thus?”

“What? No, I – uh,” he begins to splutter, then falls silent as you laugh aloud.

You close the last little bit of distance between the two of you, so that your bare breasts brush against the warm brown silk of his shirt. Your nipples tighten at the sensation.

Like this, you are nearly eye to eye with the young lord. “I think perhaps you were having me on, hmm?” You all but purr the words, and Emmanellain blushes even more. “Perhaps I should discuss this with your father...” You wait for his eyes to widen before you continue. “...or, you might change my mind. _If_ you can sufficiently entertain me.”

“What w-would you have me do, milady?” Emmanellain is breathless and you can feel his heart pounding even with the minimal contact between your bodies.

Your smile is wide as you take his hand and guide it upward.

He catches on quite quickly, cupping your breast, then raising his other hand before you prompt him and doing the same for the second breast. You let your head tip back just a little bit, humming encouragement.

He caresses you for a moment, then, his eyes staying on your face for as long as possible, he leans down, and gently presses his lips to the upper curves. You lift one hand and stroke his hair – silkier than his brother's, dense, a delight to your fingers. He takes that as further encouragement and bends his head, lifting the heavy globe just enough to let him set his lips around your nipple.

You moan softly as he suckles you, your hand tightening ever so slightly in his hair.

He raises his head, sliding one hand around you, kissing your throat, your jaw –

“Ah, ah, ah.” You stop him by clenching your hand in his hair, and place one finger over his lips. “No kisses for naughty young lords. Not until I am satisfied with your...” your voice lowers into a growl, “ _penance_.”

You can feel his manhood thump against your leg, even with layers of clothing between you. His eyes widen, pupils dilating, and for a moment you wonder if he might faint from the sudden relocation of blood.

“On your knees,” you whisper to him. “Remove the rest of my clothing.”

The tiny groan he makes as he sinks down sends a shock of heat through you, heat that pools between your legs and in your belly. The way he kisses your belly on his way down stokes the flames even higher.

His hands shake as he unfastens your tall black boots. As the leather peels back further from your legs with each button, he begins to press tiny kisses against your skin. When he eases the first boot off of your foot, he caresses the ankle, the heel, and strokes the delicate bones of your foot, before kissing the top of your foot. Goosebumps rise all along your leg as he sets it back down on the floor.

He worships the other leg just as thoroughly, and sets your boots to one side with more care than strictly necessary. Then, he turns back to you, and reaches for your belt. With quick motions, he unfastens it, and looks up at you, a question in his blue eyes. You let him have a small smile, and guide his fingers to the laces of your tight white shorts. He nods, swallowing again, and begins to untie the laces.

Then, he pauses, a look crossing his face as if he has had some kind of epiphany.

A moment later, you are sucking in a breath and suppressing a moan, because his lips are on the supple leather of your pants and his fine, strong white teeth are tugging ever so gently at the laces.

So Haurchefant told stories to his brother, did he? Or perhaps all the Fortemps men had similar notions.

The heat of his breath against you – _so close_ to your sex and yet –

You shiver, and it is all you can do not to grasp his head in both your hands and press his face to you. Slowly, you must move slowly. This is not something to be rushed through.

He glances at you, and you cannot help but bite your lip at the incredibly sexy sight of him staring up, with the laces of your pants in his teeth.

He tugs a few more times and the laces are freed, and his thumbs hook into the waist of your shorts and yank down, taking your smalls along with the rest.

He only pulls hard for a moment, however, and the moment the leather is past your hips – the moment your sex is exposed to his sight – he slows down, and eases the shorts off the rest of the way. He is breathing harshly now, and he tosses the pants to the side with no care whatsoever. His hands come back to you, sliding up the front of your thighs, then back down toward your knees, before looping back up again along the sides of your legs. His palms cup your hips, just at the flare where your leg meets your buttocks, and his fingers tremble as he grips you, ever so gently.

He looks up at you again, watching your face as he brings his mouth closer and closer to the nest of auburn curls at the apex of your thighs. You slip one hand into his hair and nod at him.

When he kisses your mound, you let your head tip back for a moment. You have to take a long breath and exert control so that you won't moan _too_ loudly. It would not do to let him know how hot he's making you. Not yet.

There is a step that goes all around the bottom of his bed – it is a _very_ tall bed – and you lift your leg, so as to set your foot on that step. With you open before him, Emmanellain lets out a soft sigh – a sound so reverent that your breath hitches again.

Then his fingers caress your folds, even as his lips graze the inside of your thigh.

You cannot suppress your moan when he slides two fingers inside of you. “ _Fuck_ ,” you whisper.

He nuzzles at you, and then his tongue strokes against you – a little awkwardly. You feel the hesitation in him, and ease his head back from you, making him look at you.

“I confess,” he whispers, his eyes not meeting yours, his cheeks blazing, “I have never...ah...”

You stare at him for a moment, and then you smile. You can't help yourself, it is a fond smile, a _kind_ smile, far more than you had intended to let him see. But the embarrassment on his face is so adorable – and the sudden knowledge that you are about to _take his virginity_ makes your desire alter, from a slow rising heat to an incandescent blaze.

“Then I shall teach you,” you murmur.

You release him, and shift your body. He lets his fingers leave your sex, and watches as you perch on the edge of his bed, spreading your knees wide apart. When you beckon to him, he does not get off his knees, shuffling over to you with precious eagerness.

You take his chin in your hand and stroke his bottom lip. His mouth is very, very kissable, and for a moment you contemplate that. But no. Not yet. First...

With small strokes of his hair and his jaw, and a few murmured words, you guide him, until his fingers open your folds just enough. He leans in, tongue extended, and experimentally licks at your folds.

“Good,” you croon.

He blinks, as if considering the flavor on his tongue, and then makes another effort, less tentative, a longer, broader stroke of his tongue. You grit your teeth, making your moan as quiet as you can. He glances up at you, and his eyes flash with something primal and hungry.

When he leans in the third time, his tongue is no longer shy. He eats you out with vigor if not with skill, and in moments you are panting, biting your lip as your hands flex in that dense, luxuriant hair.

“Yes,” you hiss, “there...there...like that, Emmanellain, gods dammit – ”

He slips fingers into your sex once more, and his tongue flickers across your folds, seeking, seeking – you tip your head back and cry out when he finds what he's looking for at last.

“Emmanellain!”

He licks your clit fiercely, drawing more moans from you. Your thighs quake at the way he's stimulating you inside and out – his fingers stroke you in just the right rhythm, just the right spots, and you feel your orgasm swift approaching. Your fingers tighten in his hair as your hips buck helplessly, and then he fastens his lips around your clit and _sucks_.

You howl in pleasure.

He laps and sucks at you, devouring your juices as you come and come on his face and his fingers, and only when you tug hard on his hair, gasping, does he stop.

He sits back on his heels, and gazes up at you. His cheeks are wet with your slick, his hair is tangled from your fingers, his eyes are blown wide with lust. He is breathing hard and red in the face.

“Please...more,” he whispers, and licks his lips. “I...wish to please you...more.” His voice is hoarse. There is no trace of the cocky young flirt, or the sulky boy. There is only Emmanellain – the supplicant, the pilgrim seeking salvation that only you can grant him.

You are breathing hard, yourself, and you shudder for a moment, leaning back on your hands. When at least you can speak clearly, you steady yourself just enough to reach for him.

He climbs onto the bed, not straddling you as you might have expected, but instead drawing you with him until the two of you are stretched out on the bed.

He cups your cheeks, and eases closer to you, his eyes once more questioning, asking permission.

You lean up, and kiss him soundly. You can taste yourself just faintly on his lips, his tongue.

He is very good at kissing. Better, perhaps, than his older brother, you think through the haze of lust and need.

Your hands skim down his body. He helps you, and his clothes seem to practically evaporate, flying off to land somewhere on the floor. His bare skin beneath your fingertips is nearly as exquisite as the fine silk. He is smooth – no scars, still soft with youth, not yet hard muscled as Haurchefant is. That softness serves only to stoke your desire, and you push him onto his back, your mouth tasting and exploring him. He clutches at you, gasping and moaning, his hips thrusting blindly as if he cannot control himself.

He groans when you circle his cock with your hand, and his whole body tenses.

“Sh,” you soothe, and caress him gently. His cock is thick and not too long – and extremely needy. Even as you stroke him, pre-come oozes from his tip, and he quakes beneath your touch.

When you lean down towards his hips, he whimpers. It is the _sexiest_ whimper you have ever heard.

His cock is dark with need, and his balls are already tightening visibly. He is on the very edge, and you position yourself with care so that now it is you who looks up at him.

His eyes watch you, almost no blue left to them, and he shudders as if he fears for his life even as you open your mouth to take him.

The taste of his cock is wonderful. The way his eyes roll back in his head is just as delicious.

He thrusts up into you, and you exert pressure, holding him down just enough to control how far he can go. It is only somewhat difficult to take him; he is perhaps a bit thicker than Haurchefant, but you manage.

You bob your head once, twice, and then you relax your throat and take all of him.

He cries out, and comes.

You hum softly and swallow, greedy for the taste of him.

When you release him at last, he is panting – nearly sobbing for breath – and his hands are shaking badly as he caresses you. You ease yourself up again, and he turns to you, leaning his head on your breasts and clinging to you, his leg hooked over yours.

You stroke his back and his hair, and let him calm down.

“I – I – thank you...”

“Sh.” You shift against him, moving your thigh into place to rub against him. Good; his manhood is already beginning to stiffen once more. There is something to be said for youth's vigor, you think to yourself, and smile.

Then, you lean down a little, and suckle on the tip of his ear.

Emmanellain yelps in surprise, and clutches you. His cock twitches against your leg.

“Sensitive?” You chuckle, knowing your breath is tickling the delicate shell of his ear now.

“ _Gods!_ ” But he does not remain passive, instead turning his head, seeking your neck, his hand stroking your hair out of his way.

You let him nuzzle you, and sigh with pleasure as he turns nuzzling into nibbling. When he finds your earlobe, you giggle and press close – then gasp when he nips the sensitive flesh.

He pulls back, and he is grinning just the same as you are.

You kiss him lustily.

“There is one thing more you must do,” you tell him, and he does not need to be told what you mean.

His smile falters for only a moment, and then he is kissing your neck again, trailing down until he can once more worship your breasts. You lay back and let him have his way for a time, carding your fingers through his hair, humming when he flutters his tongue across your nipple.

After a little time, however, you reach down, and cup his chin in your hand, tugging him back up to you so that you can kiss him once more.

“On your back again, young lord,” you tell him, your smile wicked.

He obeys, his eyes dark with passion, but a small crease between his brows. Clearly he has no idea what you have in mind next.

You grin, and in one smooth motion, you rise up, and straddle his hips, trapping him between your thighs.

His hands rest on your hips and he gasps a little at the feel of your sex rubbing against his manhood. He is hard and ready for you, and you are _more_ than ready for him.

He swallows hard as you reach down, his eyes glued to what you're doing.

Then you take him in your hand, and lower yourself onto him. Slowly.

His mouth opens, and you're pretty sure he stops breathing for a minute as you sink down and take him completely. Certainly when he does breathe, it's a harsh gasp, gulping air, his belly quivering.

His cock twitches inside you, and he is thick enough to make the twitching particularly gratifying for you. You smile lazily, and let your hand stroke his shivering belly.

Then, you begin to move.

He groans as you ride him. His fingers dig into your hips, and he mutters your name over and over, as if in prayer.

You bounce on his cock, harder now. Both of you pant harshly, a sound that does not mask the lewd noises of flesh against flesh. He fills you wonderfully, and you turn your face to the ceiling, letting out a long, low moan of pure pleasure.

He bucks beneath you, and you clutch his wrists and tighten your thighs on him. The rhythm is ragged now, as if the two of you are fighting each other; both of you seeking one more glorious release.

His eyes fly open and he cries out, arching, fingers bruising your flesh.

You unleash a victory howl as your orgasm explodes within you, riding out the ecstasy.

When at last it fades, you collapse across his chest, limp and sloppy with sweat and satiation.

“Fury...” Emmanellain pants. His hand is cupping the back of your head. His lips press against your hair.

You smile a little, and manage to roll off of him.

He tucks you against him, and you allow him to cuddle, well satisfied with yourself – and him.

Two days later, you smile at Honoroit as he delivers a small envelope to you with a bow and a very mischievous smile. You hand over the coins you promised the young squire, and take the envelope to your room. Once there, you open the envelope and read over several pages of rather florid poetry – and very erotic descriptions – all to do with your beauty and your breasts and so forth. Your grin is equal parts charmed and amused. Your lesson seems to have taken well, for even after the raptures Emmanellain goes into about your body, there is a final note that can only be a “reminder to self.”  
“Never again try Haurchefant's trick about the tits.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work was in part inspired and enabled by
> 
> [(Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club)](https://discord.gg/8C6ZKTj)
> 
> Please come and join if you've a mind to do so!


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